Fox last season was hyping a new reality show for the fall, a thing called "More to Love." Yikes! How could they do it? And how could they describe the twenty ladies vying for the love of the stout young gentleman as average or normal regarding their weight and body types, saying sizes 14-16 are average? Yikes, again. From what I saw of them, "zaftig" and "pleasingly plump" would be too kind. How about chubby, pudgy, rotund, paunchy, lumpish, corpulent, fleshy, beefy, obese . . . or just plain fat? Why would anybody tune in to this awful idea for a show? And, apparently, no one did, because it was axed almost immediately.
I'm seventy-eight years old, soon to be 79, and figure I probably have ten more years to go. That's 120 months. If each month were a dollar, I'd have $120 in my mental piggy bank. And October is about to cost me a buck. So far it's seemed more like two-bits. Inflation, I guess. I could stretch it out to twenty years if I behaved myself, lost thirty pounds, went on that exercise program I keep talking about, give up ice cream and booze. But the quality of my life would go down dramatically. I think I'll spend a few pennies thinking about it . . .. I just did, thought about it, and I decided against it. Okay, then, 119 months left. Spend them wisely, fool.